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"Will you stay for dinner?" Wei Ying asks.
Behind him, the sunset washes the needle-sharp hills of the Burial Mounds in a dazzling array of golden colours, and the dirty-faced toddler on Wei Ying's hip smiles broadly. Lan Wangji wants to tell them both that of course, of course he'd stay. Nothing awaits him at the Cloud Recesses but cold penance and the heavy weight of duty. He can remain here instead, lift A-Yuan in his arms, share their meal, be warmed by their laughter.
He meets Wei Ying's eyes over the child's head, yet he can't hold his gaze. He looks aside, but not quickly enough to miss how the corners of Wei Ying's mouth quiver down.
"I'm leaving." Lan Wangji has to, he can't let this futile dream fester for even one moment longer. If he does, if he sees the trail leading back to the Burial Mounds and into Wei Ying's new life, his resolution would waver. He forces his legs to move, makes himself turn around.
That's it. Walk away.
He's good at that.
The wind blows through the crooked trees, and he imagines that it might be a sigh, beckoning him back. He won't check. A-Yuan's tiny voice reverberates, "Why won't the rich man stay?" along with steps on the forest path.
One foot in front of the other.
Lan Wangji won't look back.
It's already dark when he reaches the inn in Yiling. The bustling evening markets, with their shouts and haggles, ring hollow in his ears. Even though he'd spent mere hours with Wei Ying, the emptiness seeps into him: the vacant seat at his table, the silence of his meal, and later, as he is shown to his rooms, the wide-open spaces only he now occupies. He stands by the windowsill and listens to the turquoise water slowly flowing by, the sway of the ships in the harbour. What is he coming back for, he asks himself as he lies back in bed. It could have been different. He could have chosen to stay.
His eyes shut.
"Will you stay for dinner?" Wei Ying asks.
Lan Wangji jolts awake with a start. The sun already sets behind Wei Ying's back, the messy strands of hair framing his glowing face are washed with soft, golden hues. The road back to the Burial Mounds stretches behind him, gnarled trees twisting along the path. A-Yuan wriggles on Wei Ying's hip, sending his chubby earth-caked fingers to try and grab Lan Wangji's robes.
He breathes hard; his eyes meet Wei Ying's, and he can't tear his gaze from his wide smile, the twitching corners of his mouth. Was he –? But surely – he shakes his head.
"I'm leaving." Lan Wangji turns on his heels, fast enough now so he can't etch their downcast expressions into his memory, but he stops after the bend in the path. He heaves, his breath is shallow, and he catches a glimpse.
Wei Ying is facing away from him, his shoulders sag; he sighs as he puts A-Yuan gently down on the ground to take him by the hand. The child chirps, "Why won't the rich man stay?"
"We each have our own path to walk," Wei Ying explains. "Who knows where Lan Zhan's path might lead him?"
"Will he come back?" A-Yuan asks.
No, no.
He knows where his path should take him. One foot in front of the other. That's it.
Lan Wangji can't look back.
He takes a winding, lengthier route down from the mountains, allowing himself to reacquaint with that vast loneliness spreading like a disease inside. When he finally makes it to Yiling, the streets are empty save for the occasional drunkard; the fog rises thick from the harbour. He feels no appetite, no will to dine with ghosts yet again, so he asks to be shown straight to his rooms. He lies on his side that night, clutching the quilt to his chest. He hasn't done that since falling asleep by his mother's house as a child. What exactly is he coming back for, he asks himself as he closes his eyes.
"Will you stay for dinner?" Wei Ying asks.
Lan Wangji shudders, his eyes are wide open, has he been standing here this all time? The sun is bright in purple and golden hues as it sinks behind the barren hills of the Burial Mounds. A-Yuan claps his muddy hands together and grabs Lan Wangji's robe, pulling him closer to Wei Ying's gleaming face.
Lan Wangji exhales; he feels dizzy, his mind spirals wild. He meets Wei Ying's eyes, the raised corners of his lips, and he can't go through this again.
"Yes," he says.
Now Wei Ying also claps. "Good choice, Lan Zhan!"
He gently puts A-Yuan back on the ground and takes his hand, and without hesitation the child also holds to Lan Wangji's hand, pulling them both after him down the path back. "The rich man is staying?" he asks.
"Yes, yes, he is," Wei Ying says brightly. "It's all because you told him how much food we have, you've convinced him, A-Yuan. And it's true, we've got plenty. Potatoes, and turnips, and even – could it be? Even carrots!"
"Carrots!" A-Yuan exclaims.
"Yes! That's better than the food in the Cloud Recesses, isn't it, Lan Zhan?"
Lan Wangji doesn't reply but simply lets himself be pulled forward by the child's small hand and by Wei Ying's fervour. What does it matter, anyway? A few hours wouldn't make a difference. He will leave for Yiling after dinner, and at least he won't have to sit by himself at the inn (again). Certainly, nothing awaits him at the Cloud Recesses but judgement and icy stares, and he can't remember anyone ever being so happy about having him as a guest.
"Do you know," the child asks him, face scrunched and serious, as they pass through the first of the crumbling stone arches of the Burial Mounds, "why being dead is the best?"
The odd question startles Lan Wangji. He's been staring at the faces carved into the ancient walls, their eyes bulging out of the grey rock, lichen growing into the silent screams of their mouths, and Wei Ying says in his stead, "A-Yuan!" and lightly scolds, "Don't bother our guest."
"It's fine," Lan Wangji says, but the boy bites on his lower lip and stays quiet while they pass by a wide courtyard and up a staircase into a large room sparsely lit by candles. Laughs and lively conversation echo from the low stone benches across the chamber, where what remains of the once-mighty Wen Clan now sit in grubby robes and dig into their thin vegetable stews.
"Come, Lan Zhan." Wei Ying urges him. "Sit down."
The men clear a space for them by the corner of the room, and this stew, Lan Wangji thinks, meagre as it is, overripe turnips and unsalted water, tastes richer than the lush banquets of Koi Tower. It's the child's chatter, the glisten in Wei Ying's eyes, his radiating warmth. His bowl is nearly empty, and sorrow gathers in the pit of his belly at the imminent, inescapable moment of his parting, when a young woman in plain grey robes approaches their table.
"Second Young Master Lan," she says. "Thank you again for your help."
Lan Wangji rises to his legs and bows to her. "Lady Wen," he says.
Wen Qing takes a seat on the bench across from them, pulling onto her knees the sleepy A-Yuan, whose loose hair was dangling dangerously close to his stew bowl. "Are you staying the night?" she asks.
Lan Wangji shakes his head. "I'm leaving now."
"So soon?" Wei Ying asks.
"I must return to Gusu."
"But Lan Zhan," Wei Ying sends his fingers to wrap around his wrist. "It's so late, and the way back is dark and unpleasant. So much resentful energy still lingers here."
"It's fine."
"I know this is no real threat to the great Hanguang-Jun," Wei Ying says with a smile, "but it's much safer to spend the night here, Lan Zhan. You can leave in the morning. What's the harm?"
But Lan Wangji knows the harm well enough. He can see it in their glowing faces, how sitting at this table almost feels like belonging, like acceptance. If he stays for one more minute, if he agrees to spend the night, he might mistake Gusu for the dream, and this for his real life. He might never leave. And so he stumbles back, releasing himself from Wei Ying's hold, bows once more and turns on his heels as swiftly as he can.
"Lan Zhan!"
No, no. One foot in front of the other.
Lan Wangji can't look back.
He's walking so fast he's almost running by the time he reaches the stone arches, his heart pounds in his chest. He takes the bend in the road, and the night is silent around him, suddenly so very cold, the wind blasting, howling against his face. He falters, falls against a darkened tree bark, his legs are buckling under him; he feels drained. So, so very tired. What is he running away from, he asks himself as his lashes flutter over the tears down his skin, and his eyes shut.
"Will you stay for dinner?" Wei Ying asks.
Lan Wangji has been standing here this all time, he's sure of that, his back pressed against dead vines and burnt bark. He knows what he'd see even before opening his eyes: the sunset, Wei Ying's rumpled hair, his soft skin bathed in the gentlest golden light, and he can feel A-Yuan's small fist clutching his robes, and Wei Ying's warm, warm breath over his cheek.
And he says, "Yes."
A-Yuan claps, almost slipping off Wei Ying's hip. They both move together to catch him, wrapping their arms around the child, and their heads are level, their eyes meet.
"That was a good choice, Lan Zhan." Wei Ying smiles and gently puts A-Yuan back on the ground. The child takes both their hands, chattering as he drags them along the bends in the narrow trail, around the gnarled roots poking out of the cracked earth of the Burial Grounds. Lan Wangji doesn't listen to the words, but to the slurred melody they form, and the vigour in Wei Ying's replies. He knows he shouldn't follow them, he shouldn't stay, this isn't his path to walk but a dream that has got out of his hands.
A-Yuan pulls on his arm, nudging him out of his thoughts. "But do you know," he asks, his little dirty face creased, "why being dead is the best?"
"Why?" Lan Wangji asks.
"Because then," the child says gravely, "you never have to worry about dying anymore."
For a moment, the stone faces seem to move, the lichen to crawl in and out of their silent, gaping screams, and how long has it been since Lan Wangji last slept? How many days have passed?
"A-Yuan!" Wei Ying scolds. "Don't scare our guest."
"It's fine," Lan Wangji says, and he picks up the child in his arms as they step up a set of winding stairs into a large stone chamber. Candlelight flickers over the roughly hewn grey rocks of the walls, and they join the grimy men and women wolfing down their thin stews; Lan Wangji finds himself tilting the bowl back, letting the last drops of soup trickle down his throat, and he feels Wei Ying's fingers enveloping his hand.
"Not bad, huh, Lan Zhan?" He grins. "You see, we make do."
He could make do with them. Nothing awaits him at the Cloud Recesses but ostracisation and a cage of rules set in stone. Perhaps he doesn't have to run away anymore. He can let himself sink lower in the bench, feel Wei Ying's coarse skin caressing the back of his hand, his heady smell, his warm, warm –
"Second Young Master Lan." A voice, a young woman – no, Lady Wen – her hair tied back in a plait, a frown creasing her graceful small face. And Lan Wangji startles, his empty bowl drops from his hand to the floor, sliding across the smooth stone floor as he rises to his feet to bow.
Wei Ying taps on his hand, "So clumsy!" he says. "Is this truly the great Hanguang-Jun I keep hearing about?" And with a laugh he goes to collect the bowl.
Wen Qing sits herself on the bench across from Lan Wangji and leans forwards until she's disturbingly close, their noses almost touching. Her voice is low. "No point fighting it."
"What?" Lan Wangji asks, eyes wide. Before she can reply Wei Ying places the bowl on the table and throws himself back onto the bench, his shoulder bumping against Lan Wangji's. "Bowl saved!" he announces. "Say, Wen Qing, have we got tea? I told you, we can't just serve water to our guests."
"No tea," Wen Qing says. A-Yuan rubs at his eyes, and she pulls him into her lap. "But I think you didn't quite finish all the wine."
"Despite my best efforts?"
"Despite your best efforts," she confirms.
Wei Ying laughs. "But Lan Zhan would rather have tea. I don't think wine is much to his taste!" He elbows Lan Wangji lightly. "Did I ever tell you, Wen Qing, once at the Cloud Recesses I actually got him drunk?"
"Wei Ying." Lan Wangji feels the tips of ears start to burn.
"No, that was really rotten of me, I'm so ashamed," Wei Ying says shamelessly, "but I swear I've never met anyone who can't hold his drink like this guy here. Had to scoop him up from the floor! And he wouldn't leave –"
Lan Wangji should make him stop, but there's warmth in that, too, in how their tale is not a new one. It spans years, it spans a lifetime, expanding into epic proportions to culminate in this moment in time. Perhaps all paths lead here, to this fever dream that won't end, and it started there: a sip of Emperor's Smile, Wei Ying's hand touching his skin for the first time, and how the guilt he'd found so tremendous back then pales in comparison to what he feels now. And he remembers Wen Qing too, her blood-red robes and her guarded half-smile, the elegance in her movements the same as her hands now pouring wine into Wei Ying's empty cup.
"What do you say, Lan Zhan?" Wei Ying calls him back to the here and now. "Want some? For old times' sake?"
Lan Wangji shakes his head. "No need."
Wei Ying takes a long sip from his cup. "Honestly, good call." He grimaces. "This tastes terrible. I'll treat you to something better next time."
Lan Wangji keeps his eyes fixed on the table, because why does Wei Ying say things like that when they both know there wouldn't be a next time. This is just delirium, a disease in his mind, the real world awaits beyond Yiling, on the way to Gusu, in icy penance and seclusion, in an all-consuming loneliness. This is his lot, Lan Wangji thinks, just as Wei Ying cheerily carries on:
"But, Lan Zhan, you will stay the night, right?"
He can, at least, do that. What's the harm? Even if he tries, would he make it out, would he ever walk the deserted night streets again, sit with other people's noise for company? Is Yiling even still there? So he slightly nods his head, and as the crowd starts to disperse, they bid goodnight to Wen Qing, and Wei Ying tousles the sleeping toddler's hair as she carries him off to bed. Under the silent, black skies, they make their way into the yawning mouth of the cave.
"Sorry, I don't get a lot of guests," Wei Ying says, eying the unfurnished, wide-open space, the dark talismans fluttering over the rock wall, hanging bunched together on tight red strings, and the unmade bed. "You can sleep there, Lan Zhan."
Lan Wangji has the sinking realisation that it's their first time alone together in a long while, just them two, no distractions, and this thought – him exposed and vulnerable with only Wei Ying to see, lying in his bed, on his sheets and under his quilts, wrapped in his scent – makes his face burn. "No need," he mumbles, and lowers himself to settle on the tattered floor rag.
Wei Ying considers him for a moment, then laughs. He pulls the thick quilt off the bed and slumps down next to Lan Wangji. "You're so strange," he says, throwing the blanket over their heads. "I sometimes forget just how much."
Lan Wangji looks at him. "Wei Ying." Their shoulders brush together. "What are you doing?"
Wei Ying holds the wine jar to his lips and takes a hefty sip. "If the floor's good enough for you, Lan Zhan, then it's good enough for me."
Back at the Cloud Recesses, the few times he'd been made to kneel on the frozen earth, other disciples had given him a wide berth, as if sin might be contagious and compassion a trap. He recalls long nights, choking silence, the weight of words that can never be shared. He truly has nothing to go back for, he thinks as Wei Ying's arm slides over his back under the heavy quilt, and loops around his shoulder.
Wei Ying says softly, "I'm glad you decided to stay."
Decided, well. That's stretching it a bit, but Lan Wangji is also glad, isn't he. He absently leans back into Wei Ying's shoulder as the faint memories of a lonesome meal at the inn in Yiling tug at his mind. Isn't it so much better like that? Here even the quiet feels companionable, as if along with the blanket they've been covered by a shroud of calm.
"You're the only one who's come, you know?" Wei Ying says. "After I was… After I defected from Jiang Clan. No one has come. All of my good friends, not a single one. I think you're the first and only guest the Burial Mounds would ever have."
Wei Ying takes another sip. "Living here, it sometimes feels… like you're not completely alive. Like you've been buried, and the rest of the world just walks on by." He wipes his lips with the back of his hand. "Spending the day with you, Lan Zhan, it was good, you know? It felt like there was someone who hadn't forgotten me, someone who still cared."
"I care." Lan Wangji casts his eyes down.
Wei Ying sends his other arm under the quilt, drawing him in for a hug. Lan Wangji stiffens, but he's held, his hair is caressed, until he loosens up and lets his head drop into the crook of Wei Ying's neck.
"I'm really glad you're here," Wei Ying says.
Then Wei Ying moves his hands to cup his cheeks, they silently watch each other, and Lan Wangji can't tear his gaze away as their lips finally meet. Wei Ying's touch is soft, first just fluttering over before he pulls Lan Wangji into a deeper kiss, mouths open, tongue licking his lips before it prods in, his fingers tangling in his hair.
"You can stay, Lan Zhan." Wei Ying's thumbs caress his cheeks; their brows are pressed close together. "You don't have to go. Just stay."
"I can't," Lan Wangji feels strangled by the words, and he can't stop kissing back, he latches into Wei Ying's lips, sucking into them by way of apology. "I can't." He curls his fingers around the back of Wei Ying's neck, pulls the blanket on top of them, and then it's just a cocoon of heat, and kisses, and a fervent goodbye that he would never have the words to express. Maybe, he thinks, this is where his path tried to lead him, maybe this would finally end this delirium. He'll return to Gusu in the morning, he must, but for now, on the floor of a stone cave, under the swirl of red water and dark spells, he allows his eyes to shut.
"Will you stay for dinner?" Wei Ying asks.
No. He's sick, he's sure of it now. Sick as the yellow feverish sunlight spilling over the burnt ground as the sun sets behind the jagged hills of the Burial Mounds. A-Yuan clutches his robes tightly, drawing him in until he loses his balance, until he's pressed flat against Wei Ying's chest, feels his warm breath raising goosebumps on his skin.
He swallows hard. "Yes."
If A-Yuan claps, Lan Wangji can't hear it, because there's a hand on his shoulder, a thumb caressing him through his robes as Wei Ying gently steadies him back on his feet. "Careful there, Lan Zhan." He smiles as he puts the child down; their eyes meet.
"The rich man is staying?" The boy, oblivious, holds them both in his small hands, and the way back is a blur of gnarled roots, cracked earth, broken ancient stones. Has he been wrong all along, Lan Wangji wonders as he listens to their chatter. Maybe outside has become the dream, and this here is the only path he's meant to walk.
"Do you know," A-Yuan demands, "why being dead is the best?"
"Because," Lan Wangji says as he picks up the child, "you don't worry about dying anymore."
Maybe that's it. Do vengeful spirits know the moment of their death? When has it happened, this fever spreading in his mind? And he's sinking lower into the gaping pit of the Burial Mounds, through the dilapidated arches, the mouldy stone figures, the spiralling stairs. A-Yuan stares at him in shocked wonder as Wei Ying merrily scolds, "Lan Zhan! Don't scare the child."
Inside the stone chamber, the remnants of Wen Clan make room for them, and they dig into their stew under the wavering candlelight. Lan Wangji can't remember that food ever tasted anything other than overripe turnip, unsalted water. He's been eating this stew his entire life, and the last drops trickle down his chin.
"Like it, Lan Zhan?" Wei Ying gives him a crooked smile. "We've got plenty more. We'll never run out." And he sends his fingers to wipe the droplets of stew from Lan Wangji's mouth. It alarms him, this sudden, too-close touch, and he flinches, sending his empty bowl scattering across the room to hit the wall on the opposite side.
"Sorry, sorry!" Wei Ying laughs. "But honestly, who knew the great Hanguang-Jun would be scared by that?" And he jumps off his seat to go and collect the bowl, just as a young woman in plain robes appears at the entrance, holding a wine jar, her pretty face sunk in a scowl. Without delay she approaches in quick steps, throwing herself on the parallel bench, planting her elbows on the table with a loud thud, and hisses at Lan Wangji:
"You're here again?"
"Am I dead?" Lan Wangji asks.
She twists her fingers in her hair, shuts her eyes. Instead of replying, she uncrooks the wine jar in her hands and pours generously into Wei Ying's cup.
"Me too!" A-Yuan claps.
"That's not for you, little turnip." Wei Ying places the bowl back on the table, affectionately messes the child's hair before taking his seat, his shoulder bumping into Lan Wangji's as he makes to grab his cup. "I bet it's not for you either, Lan Zhan! You'd rather have tea, right?" He elbows Lan Wangji lightly. "Remember, Wen Qing, how at the Cloud Recesses I got him drunk?"
"That was really rotten of you," says Wen Qing.
"It was just one sip, I swear," Wei Ying says. "Not my fault Lan Zhan here can't hold his drink! It was worse for me, really. Imagine having the Lan Clan golden boy causing drunken mayhem in my room! He even ended up sleeping in my bed –"
"Wei Ying." Lan Wangji feels the tips of his ears burn. He can't remember that part. Maybe Wei Ying is just making it up, or maybe that was when their tale of epic proportions commenced for him, with having a drunk boy in his bed. He feels Wei Ying's palm enveloping his hand, and this time he doesn't shy away. Dead, delirious, a victim to whatever sickness of the mind – at least he knows he wants that. That has always been his path.
"What do you say, Lan Zhan?" Wei Ying twines their fingers together as Wen Qing pours wine into another mug. "For old times' sake?"
And Lan Wangji says, "Yes."
Turns out he can hold a full cup now. After that, the sounds become drawn, the shapes distorted, there's darkness at the edges of his vision, and Wei Ying scoops him up from the bench, dangles Lan Wangji's arm over his shoulder as he leads him step after step down the winding stairs.
"Please, no more," Wen Qing says, but he can't hear Wei Ying's reply.
He wakes up lying on his back on a thin mattress, the heavy quilt wrapped around him. The bed curtains are drawn open, and outside the gaping cave mouth, early dawn light is streaming in an array of pale colours, softly illuminating the talismans fluttering over the walls, the glow of the flowing red water, and Wei Ying lying on his side next to him, concern in his eyes.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Fine," Lan Wangji mumbles. His head pounds.
"You never learn, Lan Zhan." Wei Ying smiles. "Here you are, ending up in my bed again."
But Lan Wangji can't remember the first time, and the room spins around, everything repeats and changes in a mad dance, and Wei Ying is the only constant. So Lan Wangji puts his face to the nook of his neck and feels Wei Ying's arms drape around his waist in an embrace.
"I'm really glad you're here," Wei Ying whispers in his ear. "I'm glad you decided to stay."
Decided. Lan Wangji wants to laugh.
"It feels good to have someone who cares." He moves to cup his cheeks. "I can't stand to lose that." They look at each other for a long moment. Wei Ying chews on his lip. "But Lan Zhan," he says. "It's getting a bit repetitive, don't you think?"
"What –" Lan Wangji is too sick to finish his reply; his throat is parched.
"This confession, this first kiss. We've already been there." His expression darkens. "We're ready to move forward, right?"
"Move forward," Lan Wangji numbly repeats.
Wei Ying sends his hands downwards, loosening the collar of Lan Wangji's robes. "Because I can tell you, I'm definitely ready for tomorrow to come. I'll take you for a full tour of the area, show you the old burial grounds. Can teach you about these new talismans I've been working on, too. Sounds good, right?" His palm slides from Lan Wangji's cheek to his neck to his chest, and again. "But if you're not ready, that's fine." Over and over again, such a soothing rhyme. "We'll just keep trying until you get it right."
"I'll never be free," Lan Wangji whispers. "Will I?"
"Free? Lan Zhan, of course you are," Wei Ying says. "You just need a bit of help finding your path."
He lowers his head, pressing their lips together in a gentle kiss, with a hand splayed over his chest; the reassuring run of his fingers centres Lan Wangji's mind, and he weaves his own fingers into them. It seems as if they're slowly melting together, their bodies coiled under the blanket, moulding into something new. Like the string of these endless, repeated todays, they're about to become one that is finally true.
"So what do you say, Lan Zhan?" Wei Ying softly asks. "Will you stay for another night?"
Outside the Burial Mounds lies the dream, Yiling is a fog, Gusu is a mere delusion of his mind. This here is the only reality he's ever had. Lan Wangji will stay for dinner. He will stay for another night. He will stay for as long as Wei Ying wants him around.
"Yes," he says.
Lan Wangji will never look back.